But if last night proved anything, it’s that she isn’t ready for this. She may never be. All I am to her is a friend. Her familiar.
I’m one hundred and ninety-eight years old. I’ve had almost two centuries of experience with females, and not one has given me thetrouble this girl has. Not one has had me tongue tied at every turn. Not one has had me awestruck and so pathetically whipped.
I used to think I felt this way because I’m her familiar. But I’ve done my research on the subject, and what I feel for her is something else entirely.
Once I change, I scribble a note for Serena and head out.
Eaton is exactly where I expected to find him. Holed up in his sanctuary.
Despite being a fierce warrior prince and second in line to his father’s throne, Eaton is actually a skilled historian. His family’s library is double the size of the one in Aegar, with family trees and records of magical objects dating back to the beginning of Solterre. Even hungover, he’s seated beside the crackling fire, feet propped up with a heavy tome on his lap.
“Enjoy the rest of your night?” he mutters without looking up. I slip into the seat beside him.
“Subtle.”
“No one’s ever accused me of that before.” He snickers, sipping his tea.
“We need to finish our conversation from dinner last night.”
He glances up at me and sets the saucer down on the wooden side table. “All ears.”
Eaton listens as I explain our predicament.
“You need to tell your father to prepare.”
“I’ll write to him today. He’ll send troops to Aegar. Or he’ll send fleets straight to Vod to crush them on their own turf.”
I nod.
“As for the rest—” He stands and moves over to the nearest wall of records. “There has to be something in here to help with the portal.”
We spend the next two hours sifting through texts and translating the ones in Ancient Fae.
“This might be something,” he mutters, sliding the thick tome from the top shelf and passing it down the ladder to me.
“What is this?”
“It’s a grimoire, recovered from one of the first Blackbloods.”
The wrinkled spine looks ready to disintegrate at any given moment—its leather binding almost completely faded. I move to flip it open, but it refuses.
“It’s spelled. Never could get it to open.”
I glance at him. “This could have our answer.”
“Maybe your witch is the key.”
My fingers ghost over the surface, so thin and worn I’m afraid if I touch it, it might crumble. The grimoire is charged, like all magical objects. They teem with life, even in their ancient state.
Eaton sinks into a wooden chair, and I do the same, pushing my hair out of my face.
“You need a haircut.”
“Thanks.”
He kicks back in his seat, drumming his fingers on the table. After a moment, he says, “You know what she is, don’t you?”
I drag my eyes up to him. “How could I not?”
